Reservoir Wrestlers
by ScarlettFever0193
Summary: Warning! If swearing makes you faint, you will go in a coma from reading this!
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: I can't begin to explain how completely screwed up I feel that I basically abandoned my duties as an author by not updating _Mr. McMahon Gets Bored Again_ and _Why Us?_ I'm really, really sorry. From the heart. So anyway, over the summer, I decided to cut away from humor for a little while since I won't be finishing MMGBA, but I guess if you still want to find out what happens in Why Us, I'll keep updating it. My new story is a kind of parody of Quentin Tarantino's _Reservoir Dogs_ because I love that movie. It was hard to write, but I tried. I'll tell you right now, this story isn't as violent as it is profane, so be warned. Judging by the condition of my notebooks, the chapters will be extremely long, so uh… enjoy.

I do not own either the WWE or the works of Quentin Tarantino… sigh.

Summary: Wrestling tycoon Vince McMahon and his son Nice Guy Shane have gathered six World Wrestling Entertainment wrestlers and given them aliases to pull off the perfect crime- rob Total Non-Stop Action's title warehouse for its titles- two minutes, in and out. But something goes wrong and the six are ambushed, now they must figure out- who's the TNA snitch?

Chapter 1: "Let me tell you what Reservoir Dogs meant."

"So… let me tell you what Reservoir Dogs meant alright? It was about these two bastards, who were gay for each other, but one's a criminal and one's an undercover cop who fucks up the entire gig so the other one ends up killing him, causing the cops to kill him in rebuttal." Mr. Nunzio told his seven compadres as they sat in a diner, eating breakfast.

Mr. Flair shook his head and waved his hand. "No, no, it was a raw look into society and an interesting, somewhat surreal organized crime unit."

Vince McMahon was ignoring his hired hands' conversation as he perused through an old address book. "The Ultimate Warrior? Haven't spoken to him since that time we almost OD'd."

Mr. H took a drag of his cigarette and turned to Vince with his eyes half-closed, smoke blowing out of his nose. "What the fuck is that?"

"It's an address book I found in my old suit the other day."

Mr. Nunzio groaned and from Vince back to Mr. Flair. "Ah! You guys are making me lose my train of thought! What the fuck was I sayin'?"

"Uh… you were saying that Reservoir Dogs was about two star-crossed gay lovers." Mr. Orton reminded him, blowing a smoke ring.

"Mean… Gene… Okerland…"

"That's all it meant. Tarantino tried to confuse us by making up a fucking title that made no fucking sense, but that's what the movie meant." Mr. Nunzio continued, confidently.

"Mr. Great? Mr. Wonderful? Ah, Mr. Perfect!"

Before anything else was said, Mr. H jerked the little black book from the boss's hands.

"Hey, what the fuck do you think you're doing?" Vince demanded angrily.

"Whole time we've been here, all I've heard from you is a bunch of fucking old-timers. I got the Reservoir Dogs doggin' each other coming out of my right ear and the fucking Pre-Ages out of my left!"

Mr. Batista chuckled. "Hey Vince, you want me to Batista Bomb this guy?"

Everyone but Vince found this to be hilarious. Mr. H laughed and replied, "You touch me in a dream, you better wake up and apologize!"

Vince glared at Mr. H. "Give me back my book!"

Exasperated, Mr. H asked, "Are you gonna put it away?"

"I'll do whatever the fuck I wanna do with it!"

Nice Guy Shane O' Mac laughed and cut in, "Yo Daddy, we better get a move on."

Vince and Mr. H stared each other down a little while longer, and then The Boss stood and said, "Alright. I'll take the bill, you guys get the tip. Uh… should be about a buck apiece. And you"- he pointed to Mr. H-"when I come back, I want my book!"

Mr. H shrugged. "Sorry, it's my property now."

Vince turned to Mr. Batista. "I change my mind. Bomb this sledgehammer tooting piece of shit, will ya?"

He left and the guys laughed. Mr. Batista made a "bang bang" motion towards Mr. H with a smile. Mr. H returned the gesture.

Nice Guy Shane turned to the boys and said, "Alright, pay up for the sweet young thing, the sooner we get back, the sooner I can get back to JR- KingTazzCole's Super Sounds of the Superstars."

The men muttered their agreement as they reached into their pockets and forked over, but Nice Guy Shane noticed that Mr. Edge wasn't putting in. "Hey man, throw in a buck."

Mr. Edge shook his head. "Uh uh, I don't tip."

Shane O' Mac stared at him in disbelief. "You don't tip? Whaddaya mean, you don't tip?"

"I mean, if the chick is really hot and makes an effort of being sexy, I'll be appreciative. But this girl was average, moderately pretty at best and her skirt was practically to her knees."

"Oh come on man, this girl was nice." Mr. Flair pointed out.

"Well, maybe she was nice, but she wasn't anything special."

Mr. Flair rolled his eyes. "What's special? Taking you in the back for a little 'Whoo!' rendezvous?"

The guys cracked up, but Nice Guy Shane had to think. "I'd go over 20 for that."

Mr. Edge sighed impatiently. He wasn't quite sure why he had to explain anything to this old coolie. "No, I mean, I ordered my coffee creamy and the two times she refilled it, it was black as hell."

"Well maybe she's just really fuckin' busy." Mr. Batista countered, leaning back in his chair.

"The words 'really fuckin' busy' shouldn't even be in a waitress's vocabulary."

Mr. H squinted and raised his spoon to Mr. Edge as Mr. Orton sat beside him, amused. "You don't know what you're talking about. These girls bust their asses just to make ends meet and they depend on your tips for that."

Mr. Edge shrugged. "C'mon man, as far as I'm concerned, they're just doing their jobs."

"See, now you're just talking outta your ass. Waiting is the number one occupancy for non-college female graduates. It's the number one job- besides WWE creative team member- that any chick can get to make a living off of."

Mr. Edge sighed and rolled his eyes. "I hear that and I don't disagree with you. Of course I don't think that it's fair that government taxes tips and I don't think it's fair that wrestlers don't get off seasons. It seems that waitresses and wrestlers are among many groups that the government fucks in the ass on a daily basis. You show me a contract that says it's wrong, I'll sign it. Make it a bill, I'll vote for it. Challenge me to a match on the principle of it, I'll fight you, but what I will not do is play ball, man fuck that."

Mr. Orton turned to Mr. H. "That's pretty convincing man, I want my dollar back."

He reached for it, but Nice Guy Shane grabbed them. "Leave the dollars there."

Mr. Orton scoffed as Vince returned.

"Alright scrammers, let's scram. Wait-" He picked the money up and counted it. "Who didn't throw in?"

"Mr. Edge." Mr. Orton replied.

"Why not?" Vince demanded.

"He doesn't tip." Mr. Orton replied.

"You don't tip? Why the hell not?" Vince demanded.

"He doesn't believe in it." Mr. Orton replied.

"Shut up!" Vince turned to Mr. Edge. "Come on, you cheap bastard, cough up. I paid for your breakfast."

Mr. Edge put his hands up defensively. "Alright. Since you took care of breakfast, I'll throw in, but normally, I would never do this."

He gave Vince his dollar as Vince muttered, "I don't give a fuck what you 'normally' do, cheap bastard… let's go."

Mr. H handed his boss his black book and he snatched it. "Thank you!"

As Vince turned and left, his six hired hands, along with his son stood and followed. Either no one noticed that Nice Guy Shane had left his brick-like cell phone on the table because they were focused on their two minute Total Non-Stop Action (TNA) heist or they just didn't care and thought that it would be funny to see how Shane would react when he remembered. It doesn't matter.

As Vince McMahon, Nice Guy Shane McMahon, Mr. H, Mr. Batista, Mr. Edge, Mr. Flair, Mr. Nunzio, and Mr. Orton walked out into the parking lot, Vince in a gray suit, Shane in a blue track jacket, and our six reservoir wrestlers in black suits, ties, and shoes with clean white pressed shirts, they could only think of one that one theme song that they loathed so much and happened to be playing on JR- KingTazzCole's Super Sounds of the Superstars- Jonathon Coachman's song, "Hard Hittin".

This was going to be one long fucking day.

AN: So tell me, should I continue or stop? Believe me, it'll get better if I keep going, but you're the ones reading it, so…


	2. Chapter 2

I do not own either the WWE nor the works of Quentin Tarantino… sigh.

Summary: Wrestling tycoon Vince McMahon and his son Nice Guy Shane have gathered six World Wrestling Entertainment wrestlers and given them aliases to pull off the perfect crime- rob Total Non-Stop Action's title warehouse for its titles- two minutes, in and out. But something goes wrong and the six are ambushed, now they must figure out- who's the TNA snitch?

Chapter 2: "I Might Have a Fucking Heart Attack, But You're Gonna Be Okay."

"Oh… ah! Uh…! Uh…! I'm gonna die! I'm gonna die!"

"Just hold on, buddy boy!"

Mr. H jetted down the road. He had a lot on his mind as people screamed profanities into the window and rudely questioned his mother's child-raising abilities and his own sexual orientation. Questions such as, what happened? What was up with Mr. Batista? Is this kid really dying?

Can I get all this blood off this suit?

You see, as he was thinking all this and driving as quickly as he could to the rendezvous, Mr. Orton was laying in the backseat with a gunshot wound in the belly. The man was hysterical, there was blood everywhere and he was trying to come to terms with the fact that he was shot by some average broad, HE, a professional.

"I'm sorry! She killed me! She fucking killed me man! Who the fuck would have thought that?!" he cried.

"Here, gimme your hand!" Mr. H reached back and held Mr. Orton's shaking hand. "Now you're hurt, you're hurt real fucking bad, but you need to cancel that shit 'cause you're not gonna die!"

Mr. Orton squeezed his hand as he struggled to sit up and said, "All this blood is scarin' the shit out of me Paul! I'm gonna die I know it!"

"Excuse me, I didn't know that you had a medical degree! Uh, are you a doctor? Answer me, please, are you a doctor?!"

After much painful groaning and thrashing, Mr. Orton gasped as calmly as he could, "No. No I'm not."

"So you admit that as usual, you don't know what you're talking about! And if you're through giving me your amateur opinion, then sit back and listen to the news- I'm taking you back to the rendezvous, Vince is gonna get you a doctor and… you're gonna be okay!"

Mr. Orton didn't appear to be listening; he was kicking something in the back seat, so Mr. H tried again.

"You're gonna be okay!" he sang. "You're gonna be okay! Say the goddamn words! You're gonna be okay!"

"OH GOD!!!" Mr. Orton yelled.

"Say the goddamn fucking words! SAY IT!!"

Mr. Orton shuddered from the pain and weakly moaned, "I'm okay Paul."

"Correct! Correct, pal." Mr. H sighed, a lot calmer now.

Mr. Orton became a lot more quiet. "I'm okay."

At the Rendezvous…

It was a warehouse. A very ominous one at that- a coffin warehouse.

Mr. H couldn't help but ponder this as he dragged the dying Mr. Orton in. "Hey, look where we are! We're in the warehouse, look, look."

"She had a baby man! She had a baby!" Mr. Orton kept reminding himself.

Mr. H laid his groaning friend on a ramp. He calmly placed the man's gun in his hand as he moaned. Mr. H started to search for the wound. Mr. Orton lifted his head to look around then dropped it with an "oh". Mr. H lifted his head again, but couldn't support it and unbuckle Mr. Orton's pants, so he dropped the head, resulting in another pitiful sigh.

"Quit banging your head. You're gonna bang a fucking crater in the ground." Mr. H teased.

Mr. Orton laughed briefly as the older of the two realized that he could not help his friend. "Sorry pal. Can't do anything for ya. But when Vince gets here… which should be any minute… he'll get you some EMTs or something."

Mr. Orton's eyes were red as he looked up at Mr. H. "I'm fucking scared, man." He giggled after thinking about his situation, then grimaced. "Can you please hold me?"

Mr. H shook his head. "Sorry buddy. I'm The Game, I could never live it down, but listen here."

He whispered something into Mr. Orton's ear. He laughed as Mr. H calmly combed his friend's short sweaty hair. "Now who are we waiting for?"

Mr. Orton didn't respond; he was in too much pain. Mr. H shook him gently. "Come on, who are we waiting for?"

"V-Vince." The injured choked out.

"Good, good." Mr. H took a handkerchief out of his pocket and started wiping Mr. Orton's forehead. "You've been strong enough for one day. The guys back in Connecticut would be proud."

"Paul…"

"Look, you're not gonna fucking die, I might have a fucking heart attack, but you're gonna be okay!"

"You're a good guy Paul… for what you're tryin' to do, but… we both know… man, we both know that without medical attention, I'm gonna die."

Mr. H threw his hands up. "Look, the only hospital for miles is a TNA zone, but you're not gonna die anyway! Listen to me, along with the kneecap, the belly is the worst place to get shot, but it takes days to die from the wound, fuckin' days!"

"Please Paul… a hospital, you don't have to take me in, just drive me to the front, I swear I won't tell a thing!" Mr. Orton begged.

"I can't take you to a hospital, but YOU'RE NOT GOING TO FUCKING DIE!!!"

"FUCK YOU MAN! TAKE ME TO A FUCKING HOSPITAL!!"

Mr. H frowned. He didn't take too kindly to people yelling at him. But this kid thought he was dying, so he let it go. "Look, you're gonna be okay, alright?"

"WAS THAT A FUCKING SET-UP OR WHAT?!"

Mr. H turned and Mr. Orton averted his eyes.

It was Mr. Edge.

And he was pissed as all hell.


	3. Chapter 3

I do not own either the WWE nor the works of Quentin Tarantino… sigh.

Summary: Wrestling tycoon Vince McMahon and his son Nice Guy Shane have gathered six World Wrestling Entertainment wrestlers and given them aliases to pull off the perfect crime- rob Total Non-Stop Action's title warehouse for its titles- two minutes, in and out. But something goes wrong and the six are ambushed., now they must figure out- who's the TNA snitch?

Chapter 3: "I Need You Cool. Are You Cool?"

Mr. Edge stormed over to them. "Shiiiiiiiit! Orton got tagged?"

"No." Mr. H replied sarcastically.

Mr. Edge sighed in frustration. "What about uh, Nunzio, Mr. Nunzio?"

"Dead."

"Are you sure?" Mr. Edge asked in disbelief.

"How the fuck could I NOT be sure?! We were there! We saw the fucking bullet go into his forehead!"

"Ohhh!" Mr. Edge grabbed his Cro-Magnum sized forehead and paced, breathing hard. Mr. H tried to keep Mr. Orton, who was rattled at the sight of his former tag team partner, calm.

"This is bad, this is SO fucking BAD!! Wait." He turned to his partner. "Is it bad?"

Mr. H looked up with an expression so dark and sinister that Mr. Edge inadvertently took a step back. "As opposed to fucking good?!" He looked back down at Mr. Orton, who was losing consciousness and making little jerky motions.

As Mr. Edge walked farther away, they heard him mumble, "This is fucked up, this is FUCKED up!" He turned and came back. "Someone fucked us up big time!"

He passed and after a moment of thought, Mr. H asked, "You really think we were set up?"

"How could you even doubt it, man? I don't think we were set up, I fucking _know_ we were set up! Honestly, truly, really, where'd all those TNA wrestlers come from? One minute we're as cool as Carlito, then KABOOM! The joint is swarming with 'em! No sirens! I mean when it comes to storage units, especially TNA storage units, realistically, we had an average of 5 minutes before they showed up! But they were there 30 seconds or less! They were just THERE! Those motherfuckers were just waiting for us! Dammit H, haven't you even thought about this?!"

Mr. H huffed sardonically. "I haven't had time to think! I was just tryin' to get the fuck outta there! After we got away from those TNA pigs, I've been dealing with him!"

"I couldn't fucking think about anything else!" Mr. Edge retorted, pointing to himself. "I didn't even wanna come here! Drive, just drive off, whoever set us up _has_ to know about this place! There could be TNA guys right now, just waiting to bombard us with an army of steel chairs!"

Mr. H looked down at Mr. Orton and decided that Mr. Edge's excitable antics were not going to help him relax. "Hey-hey Edge, let's take it to the other room, c'mon let's go."

Mr. Edge walked to the washroom on the side of the room with no hesitation. Mr. Orton realized that his friend was about to leave, so he grabbed Mr. H's sleeves.

"Don't leave! Don't leave!"

"Hey, don't worry. I'm going to be right over here, okay? Look, look, right over in this room. Just relax, okay? I'll be back." He laid Mr. Orton back down and walked over to the washroom, clutching the handkerchief he used to clean Mr. Orton's face.

In the washroom, Mr. H started washing the blood off of his hands. "Shit, my suit."

There was blood all over his shirt and jacket. As he struggled to get it out, Mr. Edge kept babbling about what he should have done, how he should have just declined when Vince approached him about the job. He kicked a mirror, shattering it.

"Hey, hey!" Mr. H turned to the aggravated Mr. Edge. "I need you cool. Are you cool?"

Mr. Edge stepped over the glass and sighed. "Yeah… yeah, I'm cool. I'm cool…"

Mr. H backed away from the sink he was using and the Rated R Superstar went to it and splashed some water on his face. Mr. H looked around the corner to make sure that Mr. Orton was okay. "You need a cigarette?"

"Why? You got one?"

The Game took a cigarette pack out of his pocket and handed one to Mr. Edge, who inspected it carefully. The man with the plan lit his cigarette.

"Man, how do we smoke these and still are able to wrestle?" Mr. Edge asked.

The Cerebral Assassin shrugged and started to put his lighter away. "I guess it'll get us in a few-"

"What about me?"

Mr. H glared at his partner. "Light your own goddamn cigarette motherfucker!"

Mr. Edge scoffed and put his cigarette in his back pocket.

"Alright," Mr. H started. "So we're in the place and everything's goin' pretty damn good. Then the alarm gets tripped and the TNA boys show up. That's when Mr. Batista starts shooting up the place."

Mr. Edge shook his head. "That's not right."

"Then what's wrong?" his partner snapped.

"The wrestlers did not show up until Mr. Batista goes apeshit."

"As soon as I heard the alarm-"

"Listen!" Mr. Edge interjected sharply. "I'm telling you this as a fact that they didn't let their presence be known until Mr. Batista became a madman. I'm not saying that they weren't there; I'm saying they were. But they didn't make their move until _after_ Mr. Batista starts shooting up the place! That's how I know that the Jarretts were tipped off. Look Mr. H, surely you-"

Mr. H started waving his hands impatiently. "Look, enough of this 'Mr.' shit-"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Mr. Edge yelled. I don't want to know your fucking name! I mean jeez, I'm not going to tell you mine!"

Sighs.

Mr. H looked up. "You're right, this is bad." He frowned. "How'd you get out?"

Mr. Edge shrugged. "Shot my way out." 


	4. Chapter 4

I do not own either the WWE nor the works of Quentin Tarantino… sigh.

Summary: Wrestling tycoon Vince McMahon and his son Nice Guy Shane have gathered six World Wrestling Entertainment wrestlers and given them aliases to pull off the perfect crime- rob Total Non-Stop Action's title warehouse for its titles- two minutes, in and out. But something goes wrong and the six are ambushed., now they must figure out- who's the TNA snitch?

Chapter 4: "The Choice of Suspension and Killing Some Dumb Motherfucker Ain't No Choice At All"

As Mr. Edge sprinted down the street out of Total Nonstop Action's low security Championship Belt Depository with a hefty valise full of nice pretty titles and Team 3D along with Diamond Dallas Page not too far behind, he couldn't help but wonder a few choice questions such as what the hell just happened? What was up with Mr. Batista? How am I going to lose these chumpstains?

Did that bastard just step on these fucking $300 shoes?

"Get the fuck out of the way!" Diamond Dallas Page screamed.

"MOVE!" Mr. Edge pushed past a couple of bystanders. He ran through a corner at unfortunately the same time as a car. In a futile attempt to defend himself, the cocky Canadian threw himself against the windshield and the car slammed on brakes.

His back hit the windshield, cracking it, and Mr. Edge slid to the ground and groaned. He didn't have long to rest as the TNA wrestlers were still coming. The WWE superstar jumped up, ripped the woman out of the car, and jumped in.

The WWF turned TNA stars realized that they wouldn't be able to catch him in a car, so they whipped out their issued Barrettas and opened fire.

Mr. Edge kept his head low and drove, making off with the titles.



Mr. Edge's eyes were staring up at the ceiling. "I don't think I got anybody. You hit anyone?"

Mr. H took a drag of his cigarette and answered, "A couple of nobodies."

"No real people?"

"Just Indy kids." Mr. H went to the sink to wash his face.

"Man, could you believe Mr. Batista?" Mr. Edge asked in disbelief.

"The sickest fucking thing I've ever seen! What the fuck was Vince thinking, hiring a guy like that without my approval?"

Mr. Edge shrugged and polished the head of his sledgehammer. "Everyone panics, but as terrorized as I get, I don't wanna kill anybody. I mean sure, if the title's right there and you're in my way, one way or another, I'm getting that fucking title."

Mr. H wet his hair and started combing it back. "That's the way I see it. The choice of suspension and killing some dumb motherfucker ain't no choice at all… at least with Steph's help…" He turned to his new compadre. "But I ain't no Heidenreich either! What the fuck was Vince thinking? Bringing in a guy like that…"

"It's like I said before, man, everybody panics, but you panic on the inside and you don't fuck the whole thing up!"

"No, what you do is act like a goddamn professional. Act like you got some fucking sense. Hate working with people like that; you never know what those sick assholes'll do next. We're lucky he didn't waste us. I came this close to tagging him myself!"

Mr. H held his thumb and forefinger rather close to each other. "I mean- fuck, how old do you think that Indy kid was? Twenty, twenty-one?"

"If that." Mr. Edge sat in a backwards chair, his sledgehammer dangling in his hand. "You know what happened to everyone else?"

"Me and Orton jumped in a car and sped away off. You?"

"I left before everyone else. When I go forward, I never look back. I thought the boys of TNA either caught 'em or killed 'em, but even if they got the fuck out of dodge, where'd they go?"

Mr. H shook his head. To be honest, he wasn't too concerned about Mr. Flair because he knew the guy could take care of himself. As for Mr. Batista, he didn't give a fuck if he ever saw him again. All he was concerned about was…

"Who do you think has the titles?"

"I'm not worried about them."

"How can you be so calm about it?"

Mr. Edge smiled. " 'Cause I got 'em. I hid 'em."

Mr. H chuckled and patted Mr. Edge's shoulder. "My guy!"

"Yeah, look, we should go right now and get 'em. Get 'em right NOW. Staying here is a fucking mistake!"

Mr. H shook his head and smoked. He knew that this would cause conflict. "The plan was to wait here."

"THEN WHERE THE FUCK IS EVERYBODY?!?!?!" Mr. Edge screamed. He sighed and covered his face with his hands. "Alright…you know, I say the plan becomes as null and void as a pure pro wrestler's future with the WWE when we find out that there's a fucking rat! We don't have any fucking idea what happened to Mr. Batista or Mr. Flair. The Jarretts could have 'em and yeah, they don't know us, but they could be fucking singing about this motherfucking place!"

Mr. H turned to the mighty hysterical one. "Calm down. You said 'fuck' in that sentence five times." He sighed. "Shit, who's the rat?"

Mr. Edge shrugged. "Mr. Nunzio? Mr. Flair? Vince? I mean he set this whole thing up, maybe he set it up to set us up."

"No." Mr. H shook his head. "I've known Vince a long fucking time. I can definitely say that he had nothing to do with it."

"Well I've known him a long fucking time too, but I can't definitely say it. I mean, I could definitely say it for me because I definitely know what I do or do not do, but I cannot definitely say for someone else. For all I know, you're the fucking rat."

Mr. H was extremely indignant. With his cigarette firmly in his mouth, he exclaimed, "For all I know, you're the fucking rat!"

Mr. Edge raised his arms in sarcastic triumph. "Alright! Now you're using your fucking head! I mean, for all we know, he's the rat."

Mr. H folded his arms because he knew that if he didn't, Mr. Edge was going to end up seriously wounded. "That kid in there is dying from a shot I saw him take! So don't you be calling him no fucking rat!"

"Alright." Mr. Edge knew when to back off. "Okay. But somebody's a fucking rat."

Mr. H walked away. Mr. Edge rolled his eyes and asked, "Where's the pisspots in this crap shack, I gotta take a leak."

Mr. H turned back, disgusted by his choice of language. "Down the hall, to the left, up the ladder, to the right."

He turned and left in a huff, causing him to ask himself how he got into this mess.


	5. Chapter 5

I do not own either the WWE or the works of Quentin Tarantino… sigh.

Summary: Wrestling tycoon Vince McMahon and his son Nice Guy Shane have gathered six World Wrestling Entertainment wrestlers and given them aliases to pull off the perfect crime- rob Total Non-Stop Action's title warehouse for its titles- two minutes, in and out. But something goes wrong and the six are ambushed, now they must figure out- who's the TNA snitch?

Chapter 5: "So What's the Cut Papa Bear?"

"By the way, how's Chyna?"

"Chyna Doll?" Paul Levesque repeated as he paced through Vince McMahon's office. "I haven't seen Chyna in about a year and a half."

Vince was surprised to hear this. He had always thought that Joanie and Paul had made a good couple. "I thought you two were a team!"

Paul shrugged. "We were for a little while. Four matches together. But we called it quits, not gonna work out."

"But why? You two had potential. You could've become my biggest intergender team ever!"

Paul sighed as he took a seat in front of Vince's desk. "Well Vince, you push the man/women thing too far, you get a little too much into it. I almost slept with Joanie while I was dating-" He stopped himself before saying something he'd regret.

"Fair enough. What's she doing now?"

"I think she hooked up with Sean Waltman and their doing some gigs in some Indy places. Hell of a woman. Nice little head pounder." He took a drink of the champagne Vince handed him. "So, explain this new job you were telling me about."

"Five man job… in and out of TNA's title warehouse."

"You got somebody to pawn it? I don't know too many people who'll move titles."

"No problem. We got buyers just waiting for them." Vince rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "What about uh, Jim Johnson, didn't he always move your titles?"

Paul winced and shook his head, about to take another drink. "He got caught in this biz, now he's serving five to ten."

"How'd he get caught?"

Paul shrugged. "Bad luck… he called me the morning of the day he got busted, said Mae Young has called him to wish him good luck… guy should've just stayed at home…"

Vince laughed. "That would do it for me."

Paul licked his lips. "What's exposure like?"

"Think of it this way: Big Show v. The Miz. Two minutes tops. During the day, some TNA jerkoffs, but that won't be your problem."

"How many guards?"

"Twenty, some of the under forty TNA guys. They're job is to watch boxes, they won't be expecting what we're about to give them. But on this day, TNA's getting a horseload of new titles, new originals and replicas for the kids, you know, to compete with us. They get loaded and shipped the next day, Wal-Mart, Best Buy, Target-"

"No they're not." Paul interjected quickly.

There was a pause. Then Vince got the joke and they both laughed.

Paul smiled. "So what's the cut Papa Bear?"

Vince returned the smile calmly. "Real juicy."


	6. Chapter 6

I do not own neither the WWE nor the works of Quentin Tarantino… sigh.

Summary: Wrestling tycoon Vince McMahon and his son Nice Guy Shane have gathered six World Wrestling Entertainment wrestlers and given them aliases to pull off the perfect crime- rob Total Non-Stop Action's title warehouse for its titles- two minutes, in and out. But something goes wrong and the six are ambushed, now they must figure out- who's the TNA snitch?

Chapter 6: "Some Fellas Are Lucky and Some Ain't"

Mr. Edge came back to the main entrance. "Look man, you can stay here if you want, but I'm gonna lay low for awhile, maybe do some Indy shows and meet up with Vince later- holy shit, is he dead?"

Mr. H leaned beside the now unconscious Mr. Orton who was lying in a pool of his own blood. He felt the man's neck for a pulse.

"Huh?! Is he dead or what?!"

Mr. H stood. "He isn't dead."

Mr. Edge blew a sigh of relief. "I thought he was dead for sure." He walked off a little.

"But… he will die for sure if he doesn't get medical assistance. We gotta take him to a hospital. Without help, he may not live through the night and the bullet in his belly is my fault. That may not mean anything to you, but it means a shitload to me." Mr. H leaned against a wall.

Mr. Edge rubbed his beard and turned to Mr. H. "Well first things first. Staying here is fucking goofy. We need to go."

"What do you suggest we do? Stay at a motel, leaning tracks of blood everywhere? Just a helpless lump when he's unconscious, when he's awake, he screams in pain, either way, he just won't stop bleeding."

Frustrated, Mr. Edge glared at him. "Well excuse me, Mr. I-Got-the-Plan! If you have any better ideas, spit 'em out!"

All of a sudden, Mr. H smiled. "Vince could help us. If we could get in touch with him, he could get a doctor here!"

His aliased ally scoffed. "Well, even if we can trust Vince- which given his record I'm not too sure we can- how are we suppose to get in touch with him? He's supposed to be here, but he isn't which is making me very fucking nervous! Even if he is cool, I can damn sure guarantee you that he will be very pissed with us. He planned this as a joke and now he's got a fucking blood bath on his hands! He's not going to have too much empathy for our little problems."

While Mr. Edge was rambling on, Mr. H was staring ahead with a dead expression on his face. After Mr. Edge was finished, he stated in a monotonous voice, "Before you showed up, Mr. Orton asked me to take him to a hospital. He begged me to do it."

Mr. Edge sighed. "Well then, if he asked you to do it, then I guess we can do it. As long as he knows nothing about us, I say it's his choice."

Before he could even think to stop himself, Mr. h blurted, "Well he knows a little about me."

Eyes wide with fury and shock stared at him. "WHAT?" He quickly walked away from Mr. Orton to Mr. H. "You didn't tell him your name did you?"

Reluctantly, for he knew that Mr. Edge would make a big fuss over it, Mr. H answered, "Well… I told him my first name and where I'm from."

"WHY?" Mr. Edge screamed.

Mr. H glared at his opposition. "I told him where I was from a few days ago; it was a … casual conversation."

"And I suppose telling him your name, that was casual too!"

"He asked." Mr. H sneered. "We had just gotten away from the TNA pigs, he just got fucking shot! It was MY fault he was fucking shot! He's a fucking bloody mess! I swear to God, I have never seen so much blood since the last time I busted open my sledgehammer! He's screaming that he's gonna die! I'm trying to comfort him! Tell him, it's gonna be okay, Vince is gonna take care of him; he'll be back in the ring in no fucking time! So he asked me my name. Not my fucking stage name, not Triple H, it was personal! What the fuck was I suppose to say? 'Sorry, I can't reveal that information 'cause it's against the fucking rules'?! 'I don't fucking trust you enough'?! Maybe I should've, but I'm The Game and that's not how I work! Fuck you and fuck Vince!"

Mr. Edge crossed his arms. "I'm sure it was a very tender moment between a couple of ladies."

Mr. H balled his fist. "Don't fucking patronize me!"

"I'm not trying to! Let me ask you this: do the Jarretts have a fucking sheet on you?"

"Yeah they do, from when they were scouting me."

"Well, that's that man! I was vexed by the thought that he knew what you looked like, but not only that, he knows a) your name, b) what you look like c) where you're from and d) what your finisher is! And with that honker, it's not going to take too many pictures for him to pick you out!"

Mr. H ran a hand over his face and told Mr. Edge, "If I have to tell you again to back the fuck off-"

"We're not taking him to a hospital." Mr. Edge declared.

"If we don't he'll die."

He looked at Mr. Orton for a second, then back up at Mr. H. "I'm very sorry about that, but some fellas are lucky and some ain't."

Enraged, Mr. H grabbed Mr. Edge by the collar, but Mr. Edge jerked away. "Whatcha fucking touching me for man?!" he snapped.

Mr. H responded with a cold punch to the nose.

"Ah!" He fell to the floor and Mr. H took the opportunity to continuously kick him across the warehouse floor.

Mr. Edge finally pulled out his knife and held it at Mr. H's throat. Mr. H returned the favor, pulling out his sledgehammer and holding it above Mr. Edge's head.

"You wanna fuck with me?! I'll show you who you're fucking with!" Mr. Edge yelled.

"You wanna cut me you little piece of shit? Go ahead, take your shot! I'll Pedigree your ass right through this fucking floor!"

"Fuck you H! I didn't create this situation, I'm just dealing with it! You're acting like some stupid first day fucking jobber! I'm acting like a fucking professional wrestler! If they get him, they get you, and they get closer to me and that can't happen! I am nobody's, especially not TNA's, bitch! You're looking at this Rated R Superstar like it's my fault! I didn't tell him my name, I didn't tell him where I was from! Shit, fifteen minutes ago, you almost told me you fucking name! You're stuck in a situation that you fucking created and if you're looking for someone to blame, go look in a mirror!"

They stood in position wordless, for a while. Mr. H, his sledgehammer a few inches about Mr. Edge's head, standing over him, who was sprawled on the ground, his outstretched arms grasping his knife a few inches from Mr. H's throat.

"You kids shouldn't play so rough. Somebody's gonna start bitching to Eric."

The men turned to see the calmest man on the planet, sipping a soda and leaning against a pole.

Mr. Batista.


	7. Chapter 7

I do not own either the WWE nor the works of Quentin Tarantino… sigh.

Summary: Wrestling tycoon Vince McMahon and his son Nice Guy Shane have gathered six World Wrestling Entertainment wrestlers and given them aliases to pull off the perfect crime- rob Total Non-Stop Action's title warehouse for its titles- two minutes, in and out. But something goes wrong and the six are ambushed., now they must figure out- who's the TNA snitch?

Chapter 7: "Are You Gonna Bark All Day Little Doggie or Are You Gonna Bite?"

Mr. Edge stared at his presumed dead partner as he struggled to sit up. "Mr. Batista…"

He made no acknowledgement as he sipped on his soda. Unlike Mr. H, his suit was still clean, but unlike Mr. Edge, his tie was long gone. His eyes hid behind his sunglasses and his appearance go no sign of someone who has just walked out of a massacre that he created. Mr. Batista had been listening to Mr. H's and Mr. Edge's conversation and it had amused him.

"Shit… kicking me." Mr. Edge muttered bitterly, standing. Mr. H said nothing, but continued to stare at Mr. Batista. "What happened to you? Fucking figured you were dead. Hey! I'm talking to you! Are you okay?"

Mr. Batista stayed stoic as he removed his sunglasses.

"We didn't know what happened to you and Flair, but I don't know why we took the time to care. Come on man!" He sighed and rubbed his temple. "Nunzio is dead, Orton got it in the belly, look-"

"EOUNGH! ENOUGH!" Mr. H roared. He glared at Mr. Edge, then turned to Mr. Batista with a mean face. "You better start talking asshole! We got shit we need to talk about. We're already freaked the fuck out. We need you acting like a goddamn professional!"

Mr. Batista rubbed his back teeth with his tongue and said softly, "Okay. Let's talk."

Mr. H ran his fingers through his neatly combed hair. "We think there's a rat in the house."

"We fucking know there's a rat in the house!" Mr. Edge corrected.

"What makes you say that?" Mr. Batista asked.

Mr. H scoffed in disbelief. "Is this shit supposed to be funny?"

Trying to keep the tension down, Mr. Edge cut in before these two bastards got into it. "We don't think this place is safe anymore."

"We're leaving, you should come with us."

Mr. Batista smiled. "No one's going anywhere."

Mr. H snorted and started walking over to Mr. Orton. "Piss on this fucking turd!"

Mr. Batista took another serene sip of his soda and ordered, "Don't take another swaggering step Mr. H."

Mr. H turned to his peaced partner and this time pulled out his gun. "Fuck you asshole!"

Mr. Batista said nothing, but didn't change his expression. "What's his problem?" he asked Mr. Edge.

"What's my problem?! What's _my_ problem?! Yeah, I got a problem! I got a BIG fucking problem! I haven't held a fucking title in months, screwed up my fucking leg, and now, a motherfucker almost gets me shot by some stupid TNA pricks!"

Mr. Batista frowned. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"IN THE WAREHOUSE REMEMBER?!"

Mr. Batista shrugged and turned away. "Ah, fuck 'em. They tripped the alarm. They deserve what the got."

He turned back to Mr. H, whose face was blood red and nose was riding up his face. "You almost shot me! JACKASS!"

Mr. H was shaking from anger, Mr. Batista took a long drink and coolly inquired, "Are you gonna bark all day, little doggie, or are you gonna bite?"

Mr. H stared at him, reaching a whole new level of pissed off. Mr. Edge rubbed his temples, stressed out and fucked up. Mr. Orton, who was still unconscious, did nothing but bleed while these idiots were arguing.

"Excuse me?" Mr. H asked, furious to the point of borderline delirium. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch that. Would you care to repeat it?"

Mr. Batista cleared his throat and tossed his empty cup. "Try to hear me this time Pops. I said, are you gonna bark all day little doggie, or are you gonna bite?"

As the two approached each other menacingly, Mr. Edge ran forward to stop it. The last thing he wanted to tell Vince was that he had two Mr. Orton's instead of one. "Come on come on! Back the fuck up! You guys are acting like a bunch of ECW wrestlers! Always about to kill each other! Is that what you are? Huh? A bunch of goddamn ECW wrestlers?"

Mr. H pulled away. "You said yourself you wanted to take him to the ring!"

Mr. Batista turned to Mr. Edge with a raised eyebrow. "You said that?"

"No, he did, but I was thinking it!" He turned to Mr. H. "Look, he's the only one I trust right now alright? TNA's violent, but not homicidal!"

"Are you taking his side?"

Mr. Edge grabbed his hair and groaned. "No…! Fuck sides man! We're all in this together! Somebody's got a chair behind our heads and I wanna know who's holding it!" He sighed and rubbed his throat from yelling. "Look… I definitely know that I'm no piece of shit. I'm pretty sure you're okay." He looked over at Mr. Batista. "And I'm fucking positive you're on the level. Let's just act like fucking professional wrestlers, okay?"

Mr. H sighed. "Yeah, you're right."

Mr. Batista laughed and rubbed his chest. "Whoa… that was exciting! My heart's beating so fast… I think I'm gonna have a heart attack… hey"- he looked at Mr. H- "I bet you're a big Killer Kowalski fan, right?"

Mr. H laughed.

Mr. Batista smiled. "I am too. I love that guy. But seriously, I got something, I think you guys'll wanna see. Follow me." He put his hands in his pockets and started to walk.

"Follow you? Where?" Mr. H asked incredulously.

"To my car."

"What, did you forget the fat burners to make that soda disappear?"

Mr. Batista gave him a wide smile. "No, I already took them. Come on, I know you'll like it. Come on, follow me."


	8. Chapter 8

I do not own neither the WWE nor the works of Quentin Tarantino… sigh.

Summary: Wrestling tycoon Vince McMahon and his son Nice Guy Shane have gathered six World Wrestling Entertainment wrestlers and given them aliases to pull off the perfect crime- rob Total Non-Stop Action's title warehouse for its titles- two minutes, in and out. But something goes wrong and the six are ambushed, now they must figure out- who's the TNA snitch?

Chapter 8: "Dave Tried To Fuck Me!"

The three men walked outside cautiously.

"You know we still have to get out of here, right?" Mr. Edge reminded them, looking around.

Mr. Batista took out his keys and made it to the trunk. "No, we're staying here and waiting'."

"For who, TNA?" Mr. Edge inquired sarcastically.

"No, Nice Guy Shane O' Mac."

"You spoke to Nice Guy Shane? Why didn't you say that before?" Mr. H angrily demanded.

Mr. Batista calmly shrugged; he knew that his unfriendly alliance was willing and able to use any old reason as an excuse to blow up again. "You didn't ask."

"Hardy-fucking-har." Mr. H replied, rolling his eyes. "Well, what did he say?"

Extremely patient was the retort, "He said, 'Stay put.' So… in the meantime…"

He popped the trunk so the three could look down.

They all had a laugh.

Tied up inside was A.J. Styles, one of the special TNA guards on duty that day.

"Maybe he can explain this… 'snitch bitch' business you were talking about." Mr. Batista nonchalantly rolled his tongue over his teeth and smiled.

Mr. H laughed and shook his head. "You deranged motherfucker. When the wrestling gods were making you, they must have been sick."

"Come on, let's get him inside." Mr. Edge sharply interjected, bringing his partners back to focus.

They reached down to yank him out…



Vince McMahon sat in his office, talking. "Yes, I know you've had quite the unlucky streak… I'm sure that if you had more time, you'd jump back… but you have to understand, I'm a very busy man and I have lines of people who would pay to kiss my ass. So I'm sorry to say this, especially after all the time you've spent here with the WWE, but… YOU'RE FIRED!!!!!!!!!!"

"Excuse me sir." Jonathon Coachman leaned against the door.

"What?" his boss barked.

"Dave Bautista is waiting outside."

"Well bring him in!" Vince groaned at the incompetence of his workers as he hung up the phone.

Coach spun around and told his visitor, "Come on in."

The boss smiled as Batista walked in. Vince punched him on the shoulder and exclaimed, "Good to see ya kid! How's freedom feel?"

Dave took off his custom made black Italian jacket to show his custom made red Italian suit. "It's a change."

Vince sighed. "Don't I know it?"

Dave sat down as his old friend poured him a drink. "So, what's new here?"

"Nothing much, got rid of ol' Bitchoff."

Dave grimaced as he took a sip. "I know."

Startled, Vince looked up. "You mean…?"

"Yup. He's my official. And he's a complete asshole. He won't let me leave the training camps, I had to sneak and he'll have my ass when I get back."

His sympathetic friend shook his head. "It never amazes me. Some boxer beats a sweet old lady half to death and they get fucking Teddy Long. Great guy like you gets some pain in the ass prick."

Dave smiled and spoke with gratitude when he said, "I want you to know that I appreciated all the stuff you sent me in the joint."

Vince scoffed. "Well, what was I suppose to do, forget about you? After taking that steroid bust for us, I wish I could've done a lot more."

"I just want you to know that it meant a lot to me."

Sitting down in his own fancy, impressive chair, Vince laughed. "What- are you gonna cry? Enough of this emotional bullshit, tell me a story Dave. What are your plans now?"

"Well, I see him, but I don't believe he's here! Dave Bautista, how's it going?"

Nice Guy Shane O' Mac came dancing in. He pulled the ear buds to his new specially made red iPod out and exchanged a quick friendly hug with Dave. "Sorry man, I meant to pick you up myself! My head's just been up my ass all week! What are you guys talking about?"

Dave shrugged and smiled. "As a matter of fact, we were just talking about how you were taking the family business down, Shane."

Nice Guy Shane smiled and looked at his father. "Really now?"

Vince shrugged. "Well son, Dave asked and hey, I couldn't le to a friend."

Dave laughed. "Shane, you can handle business about as well as you can wrestle."

"Very true! Only thing is, I'm a damn good wrestler!"

"Yeah?"

"Yeah!"

"Prove it bitch!"

Dave stood and Shane tackled him. They wrestled playfully for a while as Vince watched in dismay. "Alright, break it up! You wanna fight; you do it in Shane's office."

Dave stepped off Shane, who started laughing as he stood up. "Daddy, did you see that?"

"What?" Vince growled.

"Dave tried to fuck me!"

"You wish." His friend snorted, picking a chair up.

"You tried to fuck me! Dave, you should know better than to fuck me in my father's office. In the privacy of your own home, I really don't give a fuck what you do, but shit man, I don't think of you that way."

Dave took a cigarette out of its pack and put it in his mouth. "See, if I was a butt cowboy… I wouldn't even throw you in the posse."

"That's 'cause you'd save me for yourself!"

"HEY!" Vince snarled. He turned to his son. "As the product of my semenic efforts, you should have more integrity that to pride yourself in being Dave Bautista's ass slave! Now look, Shane, Dave has a problem. His official won't let him leave the training camps."

Nice Guy Shane laughed and shrugged. "So we give him a job! That would go over great with the douche. Some of the boys in security need an extra guy to move some shit from show to show and if this guy comes checking up on you- well, he's not here sir, you just missed him. Dave, your job will require a lot of traveling."

Relieved, Dave smiled. Getting to work for the WWE again was a great opportunity. But, he had to ask, "As fun as it'll be fucking with Bitchoff, when can I start doing some real work again, like taking down the pimple on the ass of wrestling, TNA?"

Vince sighed. "Well… I'm not sure Dave. You see, business has not been too good."

"Yeah, since the 2000s, WWE TV hasn't been too good and the FCC has been breathing down our fucking necks. But hey, Dad, if the fans see Dave, we'll get some major pops for awhile!"

Vince nodded but sighed. "Dave hasn't wrestled in five years."

His son brushed off this little roadblock. "We could give him a little warm-up, you know, with that new TNA job, right? Like old times, right?" Before consulting his father, Nice Guy Shane turned to Dave. "How about it? You up for a little two minute grab and go with five other guys?"

Dave smiled and leaned back in his chair. "Always."


	9. Chapter 9

I do not own either the WWE nor the works of Quentin Tarantino… sigh.

Summary: Wrestling tycoon Vince McMahon and his son Nice Guy Shane have gathered six World Wrestling Entertainment wrestlers and given them aliases to pull off the perfect crime- rob Total Non-Stop Action's title warehouse for its titles- two minutes, in and out. But something goes wrong and the six are ambushed., now they must figure out- who's the TNA snitch?

Chapter 9: "I Don't Like Alarms, Mr. H"

"This is JR- KingTazzCole's Super Sounds of the Superstars and that was Mercy Drive's "Burn in My Light". Make sure you're the eleventh caller to see 'Rowdy' Roddy Piper face off against 'Hollywood' Hulk Hogan in a WrestleMania Remembers match in Madison Square Garden. Stay tuned to JR- KingTazzCole's Super Sounds of the Superstars where the WWE keeps on kickin'."

As "Some Bodies Gonna Get It" by Three 6 Mafia boomed over the radio of Nice Guy Shane O' Mac's car, The Nice Guy was speaking on the phone. "Hey Coach, we have a major situation here. Yeah, I know you don't know. That's why I have to talk to Dad and find out what he wants done."

Back at the rendevous, Mr. H threw Eric inside and Mr. Edge, fueled by his hatred of TNA, gave him a hard kick in the gut. Mr. H gave Eric another kick as Mr. Batista closed the warehouse door.

"I don't know what happened, all I know is what Dave told me."

Mr. Edge and Mr. H took turns slapping AJ, who struggled to keep his pained screams in, while Mr. Batista amusedly watched.

"He said he took a TNA boy hostage just to get the fuck out of there. No, I don't know who he took. No, I won't get you an autograph! DO I SOUND LIKE I'M FUCKING KIDDING?!?!?!" Nice Guy Shane yelled not so nicely.

Mr. H and Mr. Edge dragged the beaten AJ over to a chair. Smoking a cigarette, Mr. Batista stretched out some duct tape. He tossed his butt and with smoke blowing from his nose, he sinisterly approached his capture…

"I'm practically there now. But what do I tell these guys about Dad?" Nice Guy Shane listened carefully. "That's what he said? You're sure? Okay.

With Eric bloodied up and taped to a chair, Mr. H and Mr. Edge demanded information. Mr. Batista watched from atop a mountain of wrapped coffins with a new cigarette.

"You like being a fucking hero?!"

"No! No!" Eric braced himself as Mr. Edge' fist made contact with his face. The impact sent Mr. Edge reeling as Mr. H stepped in to take command. "We know you fucking know something, you might as well talk."

"I-I don't f-fucking know anything!" Eric yelled, trembling from the immense fear and pain.

He jabbed the Eric in the jaw so fast that the young jobber didn't even feel it at first. Blood flew from his likely broken nose. "You know something, look at me, look at me!" He yanked Eric's very fragile, freaked out face towards him. "You fucking know."

"What the HELL is going on here?!" Nice Guy Shane O' Mac demanded, storming into the warehouse.

"Nice Guy." Mr. Edge panted.

"Holy shit, Orton is dead!" the Nice Guy gasped.

Mr. H turned to look, then turned back to his boss's son with his hands on his hips. "No he's not. But he damn sure will be if we don't get him to a doctor."

Nice Guy Shane sighed. "Good. Does anyone know what happened to Flair or Nunzio?"

"Nunzio's dead." Mr. Edge answered, shaking his fist painfully. It marveled him, punching someone had never hurt before.

"Mr. Nunzio is dead? Are you sure?"

Somewhat offended, Mr. H replied in a deadpan voice, "Of course I'm sure. Took a sledgehammer to the head."

"Well does anyone want to share what happened to Mr. Flair?" the boss's son wanted to know.

Mr. Edge shrugged.

"Fuck."

Mr. Batista sighed out some smoke. "Where's Vincent?"

"I don't know, I haven't talked to him yet. I talked to Coach, he said Dad's coming and he's pissed."

Mr. Edge forced a laugh. "Vince is pissed? I told you." He pointed to Mr. H. "I was right, as usual."

"What did Vince say?" Mr. Batista asked again, blowing another smoke ring.

"I told you, I haven't TALKED to him yet! All I know is that he's pissed!" Shane yelled, almost as pissed as his father.

"Well, he's gonna be even more pissed when he finds out about the setup!" Mr. Edge muttered, rubbing his chin.

Nice Guy Shane spun around in disbelief. Not only did he have dozens of deaths to deal with, but now here was some more bullshit. "What?"

"We were set up."

"No body set any fucking body up!"

"Hey, fuck you man! We were there, not you and I'm telling you, we were fucking set up!" Mr. Edge declared, glaring at his opposition.

Nice Guy Shane returned the favor, not only to Mr. Edge, but Mr. H. "Fucking ASSHOLES rob a title warehouse, fucking shoot up the place…"

"Don't you call me an asshole!" Mr. H demanded, returning his attention from Mr. Orton to his friend.

"Fucking IDIOTS, try to fuck a title warehouse, you fucking shoot up the place and you fucking wonder why the TNA boys show up?!" He screamed.

"Don't you call me an idiot!"

They glared at each other, then Nice Guy Shane turned to Eric, who seemed to be whimpering and convulsing in the middle of all of these explosions. "This the bastard you told me about? Why are you beating on him?"

"We figured he could tell us what happened." Mr. Edge explained.

His boss got so angry at the hired hand's ignorance that he shrieked, "If you fucking beat this jabroni long enough, he'll tell you what caused Owen Hart to die, now that don't necessarily make it fucking SO! Come on man, THINK!"

Mr. Batista smiled as he watched them. They were so puerile when they were angry.

"Alright! Alright. Can someone just do me a big favor and tell me where the titles are?"

Mr. Edge, his eyes wild from the excitement answered. "I've got them, okay? I stashed them to make sure that TNA didn't have any undercover minions hiding out."

Nice Guy Shane sighed and calmed down. "Okay. Thank you for that. Now first things fucking first. We have to get those cars out from front, it looks like Goldberg's fucking personal collection out there. H and Edge, you're with me, take a car each, I'll follow you, we'll ditch 'em. Batista, you baby-sit these two."

Mr. Batista, who was brushing bits of ash from his pants, looked up briefly, then continued his task.

"While we're driving, I'll arrange a sort of doctor for our dying friend." Nice Guy Shane felt that that plan would work and satisfy everyone.

But it didn't satisfy Mr. H, who was ostensibly unhappy. "No way, we can't leave them with him."

Mr. Batista, sensing himself being talked about, looked up again.

"Why not?" Shane O' Mac asked, indignant for his friend.

"Because he's a fucking psycho. And if you think Vince is pissed, that's nothing compared to how pissed I am at him, for even THINKING about putting him in the same ring as me!"

The door mysteriously blew open and Mr. H went to go shut it. Nice Guy Shane followed as Mr. Batista explained his side of the story. "You see what I've been putting up with, Shane? I fucking walk in here, tell these guys about staying put, Mr. H, in all his egocentricness has to be the rebel, sticks weapons into my face, calling me a motherfucker, says he wants to kill me, and blah, blah, blah, blah!"

"He's the reason the heist went bad." Mr. H tattled to Shane as they walked back. He turned to Mr. Edge, who was actually mellowing out compared to Eric Young. "What are you? A fucking silent jobber? Tell him!"

Mr. Edge shrugged. "He went crazy in the warehouse, but I guess he's cool now."

Frustrated, Mr. H tried again. "This is what he was doing:" He made motions like he was shooting a gun. "Bam, bam, bam, bam!"

Nettled, Mr. Batista responded, "Yeah, bam, bam, bam, bam. I told them not to touch the fucking alarm and they did! If they hadn't of done what I told them not to do, they'd still be conscious and for the most part, alive."

Mr. H gave a sarcastic round of applause. "My fucking mentor!"

Mr. Batista smiled and gave a bow. "Thanks."

Exasperated, Mr. H asked, "That's your excuse for going on a kill-crazy rampage?"

Mr. Batista shrugged. "I don't like alarms, Mr. H."

Nice Guy Shane was getting annoyed. So far, it looked like Mr. H was the psycho trying to distract everyone from his psychotic needs to Mr. Batista's psychotic needs. "Look, it doesn't matter who stays. But now this guy's seen us, it probably wasn't a good idea to take him out in the first place."

"Oh, by then we had known about the set-up!"

"THERE IS NO FUCKING SET-UP!" A very enraged McMahon screamed. "Batista, you stay here with these two! H and Edge, you're with me! If Vince comes here and sees this mess, I swear to you he will be just as mad at me as he is you!"

The three stormed off, Mr. H and Mr. Batista staring each other down each step off the way.

"Hey." Mr. Batista called. "Anybody got a smoke?"

Mr. Edge fished around his pockets and handed his partner the cigarette Mr. H had given him earlier which pissed Mr. H off.

When they finally left, Mr. Batista turned to the barely conscious Eric and smiled.

"Alone at last."


End file.
